


Empty Churches and a Broken Crown

by thingsishouldntbedoing



Series: The Lionhearted [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Humor, companion fic, like that is literally what this is, that buddy cop fic nobody asked for, the buddy cop fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 19:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2703752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsishouldntbedoing/pseuds/thingsishouldntbedoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fates intertwine in the eleventh hour. Not all those who wander are lost, not all those who are lost need wander. [Aside to The Summer's Flower]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Churches and a Broken Crown

**Author's Note:**

> So I know there are a good number of questions surrounding the happening in The Summer's Flower so here is your aside fic. I hope this helps.
> 
> This takes place sort of concurrently with **[The Summer's Flower](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2666057/chapters/5959244)**. 
> 
> That picture of **[the Lady Arielle](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/post/103867363949/i-had-a-few-questions-about-what-exactly-arielle)**.
> 
> Check me out on tumblr at **[thingsishouldntbedoing](http://thingsishouldntbedoing.co.vu/)**.
> 
> I'm tracking the tag **fic: the summer's flower** if you want to keep an eye on it!

She had done everything she could, treating the deep wounds with poultices and keeping him hydrated. She wished she had lyrium on hand, that she could ease his withdrawal with something, anything, to keep him alive. He was pale, barely breathing, and shivering like death and she wondered if it would be more merciful to simply break his neck and soften his passing.

“Mamá…” he reached out in his fever and she caught his hand, stroking a cool cloth against his face. “Mamá please… I’m s-so sorry…”  
  
“My name is Ileana. You’re safe now,” she knew the words wouldn’t reach him, that his being safe was irrelevant to his imminent death. “Please hold on I… I won’t let you die.” That was a lie. If he passed there was nothing she could do.

She wondered, sitting by him night and day, if Alistair would have done differently. Likely he would have killed him then and there, put him out of the suffering he knew would come. She had never seen a Templar suffer withdrawal, she knew of the effects but not that it would be like this. It was possible, of course, that it was only hastened by the loss of blood and the violent wounds he bore.

Ileana sighed, wishing then that her King was beside her and that her heart was stronger, rolling the handle of her knife in her hand. This boy reminded her, desperately, of her own brother and it made her second guess her decision.

Fergus had given her the dagger when she was young, a present fit for a princess. Gold inlaid with emeralds, that he’d sworn matched her eyes, curled around the hilt and the steel with soft, whimsical patterns. It was a blade meant to protect, meant to look pretty and destroy if needed. It had saved her life more than few times, and Alistair’s almost as many. A knife that could end this boy’s suffering if only she had the courage to do so.

She had found him through tracking the movements of the red monsters she’d seen, reeking of Red Lyrium and begging to be destroyed. She heard an argument between her ward and another partially corrupted Templar, watched the creature attack without warning, and drew her sword.

The battle had ended swiftly, she had the element of surprise and a war beneath her belt against the inexperienced young Knights whose change had only just begun. 

Templars would have carried stores of it, vials to keep them healthy and sane, and while the boy had possessed none… 

“I will return,” she said it to him as if he could hear her, letting his hand go. He was nearly gray, blue eyes bright against the sickly shade, and the length of his undercut hair clung to his sweat in tendrils. He was pitiable, shaking beneath the blanket she’d bound around him, and her heart hardened. “Stay alive.” She could have sworn in that moment he’d regained some lucidity, eyes on hers, because he nodded sharply before his head lolled back.  
  
 _Please stay alive_.

“Sebastian stay here. Guard.” She told the Mabari that lifted its head at her rising. “If anyone gets in here you tear them to shreds.”  
  
She threw her boots on and fastened her cloak around her neck, starting out into the rain that pounded against the windows of the mine entrance with a bow over her shoulder.

Outside she could hear the faintest whispers of The Calling, just beneath her range of hearing, but pushed it back and moved into the trees, blood hot in her veins. She sensed no Darkspawn, felt no evil, but the woods still seemed foul from the taint of the Red Templars and she proceeded to the battleground with caution.  
  
Death was inevitable, she supposed, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t forestall it for this boy. She had once said that saving one life was worth the sacrifice of many, leaving people standing after a battle meant the chance to rebuild… and she had meant it. If she could save this young man she could ask him about the Templars, could learn much from his input, and his presence might help push back the loneliness she felt in her chest.  
  
Selfish, she chided herself, to think to use him to soften the loss of her comfortable home and her loving husband.  
  
 _“Keep that dog with you, Ana,”_ he had told her fiercely. _“Keep him with you and don’t dare to lose sight of him_.”  
  
She smiled at the memory, adjusting the quiver at her hip as she walked. He had almost not let her go, he had fought and argued for days on end until he’d finally relented. Those nights had been long and dark for both of them, a bitter sadness that bit their hearts and pulled them together for what short hours they could steal before she departed. 

Ileana scaled a tree, perching in the branches to look out over the valley below. She knew there had to be more Templars where he had come from, that there had to have been more to support their forces but it was impossible for her to see through the thick trees.  
  
“What good is a dog when you can’t use him?” She sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, feeling her joints creaking in the cold. She was sure Alistair was spending his time berating the staff and telling everyone that crossed his path how proud he was of her. She was surprised she had managed to keep him from putting a mural of her face on the wall behind the throne, an idea, she had no doubt, that had been planted by Morrigan at some time or another in their long past.  
  
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and pulled an arrow, aiming without really looking. The shaft quavered as it entered a Templar’s throat, sending him silently to the ground, the red glow of his skin dissipating.  
  
“Templars are ever so noisy,” she dropped beside him and rustled through his pack. “Just the red stuff…” She continued her hunt, passing beside herds of halla and deer, silent as a shadow. She knew she didn’t have much time, even if the withdrawal didn’t kill him his wounds would. He couldn’t fight a battle on so many fronts without help.

  
“Maker…” the breath was stolen from her lungs when she crossed over a ridgeline, pushing her hood back from her hair. “What… is this?”

 

* * *

 

He remembered cool hands on his face and the soothing sound of a warm voice, curling his fingers into the fabric of the bed he was laying on.

 _Bed?_  
  
The last thing he remembered before that was being cut down by a _bastard_. He wouldn’t dare call him a Templar. Templars didn’t bow to Mages. They didn’t give in and join a madman’s plan to destroy humanity. The Templars were sworn to the Maker, not to some _Elder One_ whose promises reeked of violence and desperation.

He felt the crushing pain of the wound on his chest with each breath, hearing a dog growl from beside him.  
  
 _Dog?_  
  
He reached out his fingers to the Mabari that trotted over to him and let the hound lick his hand, petting the creature’s nose. At least he was friendly.  
  
“Who do you belong to?” He didn’t recognize his own voice, drawn and broken and raspy, and his face ached like he’d been hit with a mace. He fingered the collar on the dog’s neck and turned his head ever so slightly. “Sebastian?” The dog seemed to know better than to bark in response, whimpered and nuzzling him gently.  
  
He looked around, head spinning, and wondered where his savior was. The dog certainly couldn’t have treated his wounds and put him to bed. He needed to find them, dragging himself onto his side despite the tight bandages and heavy ache of healing skin.  
  
“Hello?” He tried to raise his voice above a whisper, groaning as he sat up with shaking arms. The room swam before him but he managed to focus on a desk littered with papers and bottles of ink and thick, old books. A table with vials of some dark liquid and various labelled containers he’d only seen in an apothecary sat off to the side with a pile of bloody bandages.

 _How long have I been here_?  
  
“Whoa!” The door opened and a voice preceded the arms that caught him before he teetered over, black pushing into the edges of his vision. “You have some endurance…”  
  
“Who are you?” He managed, resting heavily against her shoulder, shivering.  
  
“Ileana. I found you being attacked by Red Templars.”  
  
“ _Don’t_ call them that!” He hissed, his fury overwhelming his pain. He groaned, trying to keep his body from heaving. “They--Those things aren’t Templars…”  
  
She smiled wryly. She remembered how Alistair had something very similar before, how even when they were no longer under the thumb of the Chantry some of them still believed in the good of Templars or perhaps that they could be good in one way or another.  
  
“You need to rest,” she set him back gently, helping him lay back down on the cot heavily. “I’ve brought Lyrium.”  
  
“Maker bless you…” She pulled her cloak off, hanging it up, slinging her bow and quiver over the same hook.  
  
He felt more at ease with the Lyrium in his system, the pain subsiding from his withdrawal, and let her feed him bread soaked in broth, her gentle hands cradling his head. She was like an angel, green eyes bright against the pale skin of her face and long brown hair falling over her shoulder. She seemed familiar somehow: the soft, wise smile and the heart shaped face.

 

* * *

 

She didn’t notice him when he woke again, working at her desk since his pain had quieted. What she had seen over the ridge was panic inducing and she hurried to finish her letter.  
  
“Are you… you’re like an angel you know?” His rasp in the flickering firelight made her jump.  
  
“My husband tells me that every once in a while. I don’t think I believe him,” she smiled softly, turning to look at him.  
  
“You’re married?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What’s his name?”  
  
“Alistair Theirin…”  
  
“Th-The King of Ferelden? Then you’re…” He propped himself up on his elbow.  
  
“Queen Ileana Theirin, yes.”

It was funny to hear someone refer to him as King, even after nearly a decade of rule. He hadn’t really wanted to lead. He swore he was terrible at being a leader, at being a King, that it wasn’t for him.

_"What? Lead? Me? No, no, no. No leading. Bad things happen when I lead. We get lost, people die, and the next thing you know I'm stranded somewhere without any pants.”_

She nearly laughed out loud at the memory. He was a king like no other.  
  
“Maker’s breath…” he swore. “My lady I…”  
  
“You were injured and in danger, what kind of a Queen would I be if I didn’t save you? No need to fret.” She offered a smile and he sank back into the pillows. He looked better now with color in his tanned cheeks, though his eyes were still hollow from the wound to his face. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Like I was run over by a carriage immediately followed by a herd of bronto,” he groaned, flopping back down.  
  
“Well that’s an accurate description of how you look as well.” She offered a smile. “Are you hungry?”  
  
“No I… the lyrium helped…” he grunted. “Did I… do anything while I was delirious?”  
  
“Well you did talk a bit, it’s been four days since I brought you in like fresh meat,” she said and slung her arm over the back of her chair. “But I think once you’re well enough to move we should.”  
  
“Should we? Why?”  
  
“I saw something…” his face sank with concern. “You came from that huge camp of Templars, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then you know they have an archdemon with them?”  
  
“Something like--” his voice faltered and failed and she rose to bring him warm tea with honey and mint.  
  
“Rest your voice, you don’t need to tell me everything.” She touched the side of his face when he nodded. “The more you rest the sooner we can leave.”  
  
He dozed off again, strength gone after the strain of the conversation, and she moved to roll her letter and hand it to the raven in its cage.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been nearly a week since she’d found him and the Templars were slowly moving up into the mountains. She was forced to make a quick decision, which led to his sitting beside her in the front of a cart, all her work and belongings packed in boxes and trunks behind them. He was heavily bandaged and wrapped in blankets with Sebastian beside him, a hood pulled over his head, but he was mobile and bracing himself through the bumps and climbs as they moved through the hills.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
“Yes I--” he grit his teeth. “Yes I’m alright.”  
  
“You know… I realized something.”  
  
“What’s that?” He sighed his way through another bump.  
  
“You never did tell me your name.”  
  
“You never asked, it’s Gavin.”  
  
“Gavin. Where are you from?”  
  
“Ostwick, in the Free Marches.”  
  
“Oh? Do you have any family there?”  
  
“I have a sister. Why?”  
  
“I wondered if there was somewhere I could deliver you safely. The Free Marches are a long way from here, though.” Ileana weighed her options. She couldn’t keep the boy around forever, once he was healed he would surely want to do something. “I do know somewhere I could take you but it would be quite the journey.”  
  
“If we can stop to take breaks I’d--” he grimaced. “I’d be up for that.”  
 __  
To the Inquisition it is, then.  
  
“What’s your family name, Gavin? So I can at least tell your family you’re alive.”  
  
“Trevelyan. My sister’s name is Lisette.”  
  
 _To the Inquisition._

_Post haste._

**Author's Note:**

> I found Gavin! See you next time<3


End file.
